One Last Role
by Rabirhek
Summary: June helps the FBI with an undercover operation to catch a fence. June, Neal. Peter guest-stars.
1. Chapter 1

_Written for a prompt in a _White Collar_ community at LiveJournal: "June gets back in the game." Two-part._

* * *

><p><strong>Act I.<strong>

Peter, Neal, June.

Neal's apartment; late in the afternoon of a cold winter day. Orbs of golden light around the wall lamps fill the room with a warm glow. Outside, the sky is dark and grumbling; the wind bangs on the glass doors of the balcony.

Seated at the table are Neal and Peter, a bottle of wine and two glasses before them. They're discussing a case they've taken on just a few hours ago: a particular fence the FBI has been tracking for almost a year has recently resurfaced in New York. The man's name is Benjamin Lenart; a black market arts dealer who works alone. He's smart, evasive and good at covering his tracks.

Neal looks tired; Peter, awake and focused, the way he always gets when he's caught up on a case. He's frowning as he stares unseeing at the half-finished painting on Neal's easel, his chin rested on his hand.

"Alright," he muses thoughtfully. "What's the way to go if you want to draw out a particular fence?"

"Force him to make a sell that we can track," Neal obediently supplies.

"And we have the advantage; we know Lenart's got two sixteenth century hand-mirrors and an emerald-cocked hairpin that the Interpol has recently flagged."

"We spread the word that the feds know about the smuggled items; he'll get spooked and try to sell them to the first eligible buyer."

"Then all we need is your 'street contacts'," –Peter throws Neal a meaningful look- "and, of course, someone to go undercover as the eligible buyer."

Neal sighs as though he's suffering. "You have anyone in mind?"

"Obviously you can't be the buyer," Peter asserts, waving his hand, "we need you to verify the authenticity of the items, so_you_ will be the art expert."

Neal rolls his eyes, sitting back in his chair. Peter cocks an eyebrow.

"What; too boring for you, Caffrey?"

"No, not at all," Neal says, shaking his head. "It keeps getting more and more interesting every time I play the art expert. I just love it; it's always so fulfilling to have the chance to pour something from myself into the character, you know. The man behind it, Peter Burke- _man_, he did such a good job with the casting, and I'm just so grateful to get the chance to work with him—"

"Alright, Brad Pitt_,_" Peter cuts him off, amusement on his face, "I get the picture."

"But do you get the _big_ picture, Peter? The motion picture- because sooner or later this character will _have_ to be made into a movie-"

"Seriously, Neal. Enough."

Neal closes his mouth shut and moves his hand from one side to the other as though zipping it.

There's a knock on the door, and June walks in. She smiles at them, holds up a hand to tell Neal not to bother, and gestures towards the big bookcase. Neal nods, and he and Peter continue discussing who to send undercover as an interested party. They're taking it lightly, keep getting diverted from the subject, but always coming back to it.

At some point, Neal mentions that they'll also need the proper setting for the sting. That's when June joins the conversation. She's already by the door, holding a few books in her arms.

"Why don't you bring this man here?" she suggests, as though it should have been the first thing they've thought of. Peter and Neal exchange surprised looks.

"Here?"

"Sure," June says, shrugging. "I could always take the part of the rich lady with an interest in rare artifacts." She sounds like she's merely offering Neal to use the balcony for throwing a party.

"June, this could be dangerous," Neal says after a pause. June looks to Peter.

"Is this Lenart man violent?"

"Not as far as we know," Peter replies, ignoring Neal's glare.

"Well, then," June puts, as though the conversation is over, "what is life without a little excitement?"

But neither Peter nor Neal looks as ready to accept. "I don't know…" Peter muses uncertainly.

"Well, I wouldn't want to insist," June revokes politely. But Peter is gripped; they talk about it for a few minutes and it doesn't take too long for Peter to be convinced that June's offer is too good to be turned down. He tells her they'll talk about the specifics tomorrow, June nods and rises to leave. Neal, however, looks unsure.

He asks her if she's sure she's up for this. June tell him she won't that as an offence.

She turns, walks out, and pulls the door behind her back.

/

**Act II.**

June, Neal, Benjamin Lenart.

June's house, the next day, eleven o'clock. The curtain is about to rise. Her hand on the doorknob, June allows herself one brief moment to take a deep breath. _(It has been years, so many years since she's last done something like this, but it feels exactly the same. The thrill of anticipation buzzes within her like an electric wire; a slight tingle in her fingertips, and the metal of the doorknob is ice cold against her skin. The sweet shot of adrenaline is gently tossing against her mind, blurring the edges of her conscious, preparing her for what running a con requires. She'll loosen up enough to go with it, and be alert all the time._

_Doing this again, right now, feels like switching on the attic light and seeing the cloud of dust floating about the light bulb.)_

Steeling herself, June twists the knob and pulls the door open.

/

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Fey?"

The man standing outside the door is tall and impressive at the first glance; a long black coat hangs from broad shoulders, giving him a both charismatic and mysterious look. A hard-set jaw, long, straight nose and grey eyes make for a cold handsomeness. He holds a leather briefcase in one hand, and a recently closed umbrella in the other that's dripping rainwater onto the doorstep.

"Mr. Lenart, I presume," June says with her usual grace, "Come in."

"Thank you," Lenart returns, stepping inside and leaving his umbrella on the stand next to the door. June turns and gestures for him to follow.

"You'll have to excuse me; I'm afraid I do not have too much time for business today. I'm expecting some guests, so I hope we can make this quick."

"Of couse, ma'am," Lenart returns easily. June leads her to the study; they walk in, and right on cue, Neal rises from a high-ended armchair in one of Byron's well-fitting suits and thin-framed glasses that complete the look of an art expert. He wears the expression of a bored man who's losing time because of a late meeting.

"Mr. Lenart; Victor Wright," June introduces. "Mr. Wright is an expert on Middle Eastern material culture; he was kind enough not to turn me down and be present today."

Neal and Lenart tightly shake hands as June sits behind the big, walnut-tree desk, puts on her glasses and folds her hands.

"Alright. Mr. Lenart, I believe you're here to show me some pieces."

"Yes, ma'am. If I may."

Lenart approaches with two long strides, leaves the briefcase on the coffee table and flicks the lid open with a slick move. He's carefully practiced, like a man who's been doing this for a long time. Neal walks closer as Lenart lifts the open briefcase and places it on the desk, revealing the contents to 'Mrs. Fey's' expectant eyes.

"Here they are," he presents, "two fifteenth century china teacups from Hussein Baiqara's palace, and _Ali Shir Nevâi'_s own set of pen-cases and ink bottle."

_Teacups from where?_

June frowns as she leans towards the briefcase and observes the display. What she's seeing are definitely not what Peter has showed her and Neal in a photograph; there's supposed to be hand mirrors and a hairpin, not teacups or pen-cases with ink bottles.

Without a word, she looks up at Neal.

"Mr. Wright. What do you make of these?"

_(The shadow of worry is threatening to materialize somewhere in her heart as Neal leans forward and carefully removes one of the teacups from its niche. Lenart was supposed to bring them items that the FBI has proof that are illegally obtained; without them, for all she knows, she may end up having to actually buy these pieces and let the man walk free.)_

It doesn't take long for Neal to make a discontented grunt. He carries the china cup back and leaves it down without any of the delicacy he's lifted it with.

"These are fakes," he declares, his voice steely.

Lenart, however, looks perfectly self-assured. "They indeed are," he confirms. June takes a breath to ask what does that mean, but Lenart continues to speak. "Where did you say you were employed, Mr. Wright?"

Neal's narrowed gaze pierce throuh Lenart. "Metropolitan Museum of Art," he replies, leaving no room for debate. "Four years last month."

"Ah, then it is possible we may have met before," Lenart suggests, "because you look rather familiar."

"Do I?" Neal looks searchingly at Lenart's features for a few seconds, and shakes his head. "No, I have perfect recall. I don't think we've met."

"Of course, I may be mistaken," Lenart relents. "But allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Wright. Those are pretty high-quality forgeries; it would take a real expert to distinguish them from the real articles."

"They're good," Neal agrees, throwing a look at the items on the desk, "but they're not works of art."

Lenart's lips quirk. "You classify good forgeries as works of art?"

"I'm an art expert," Neal puts stoically. "That a man can't sign his own handiwork doesn't mean it doesn't deserve appreciation. But that's hardly what we should be discussing, is it?"

"No, it most definitely isn't," June interrupts angrily as she pushes herself up from the desk. She glares at Lenart from above her glasses. "Mr. Lenart, will you care to explain why you've brought me forgeries? I thought you had _exquisite _pieces. _Real ones_."

Lenart immediately turns to her. "You'll have to excuse me, Mrs. Fey," he says, not unkindly. "It's a necessary precaution. Your generous donations to museums and art societies and your astounding private collection are well-known, but I have a habit of making sure my clients' art consultants are just as trustworthy."

"But why would you want to test my art expert?" June questions, eyebrows raised in confusion. Lenart smiles again.

"Let's say that it's an extra service I provide for my clients."

"Which indicates you assume your clients may not be working with real experts," Neal asserts in his smoky undertone. His eyes are watchful of Lenart's every move. "You have trust issues?"

"Well," Lenart shrugs humbly, "who doesn't? But you know to take the extra mile if you've met Neal Caffrey once."

And before either of them can comprehend what's happening, Lenart has a gun in his hand, and it's pointed at Neal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Act III.**

Outside, the storm is raging.

The wind is furious as it hurls the rain through the windows, harasses the trees, assaulting the parked van just across the street. Thunders are rolling, bolts splitting the sky with one blinding flash after another, and the city cowers under their wreath.

Inside, it is theatrical.

"_Mr. Lenart,_" June exclaims, rushing to her feet as a hand flies to her chest, "_what_ are you doing?"

Benjamin Lenart doesn't even blink.

The man is standing to his full height, in the middle of the room, his long arm stretched forward with a revolver in his grip.

"Mrs. Fey, how long have you known this man?"

"I've known Mr. Wright for two years," June replies, voice slightly shrill as she clutches at the collar of her blouse. "Mr. Lenart, _please - _put that gun away - you'll give me a heart-attack!"

Lenart throws her a sideways glance, tilts the tip of the gun and gestures at Neal. "This man isn't who he says he is," he explains. "His name is Neal Caffrey. He's a felon, a thief." He spits the word out. "He's conned one of my former clients; got away with family heirlooms worth over a hundred million. He caused a successful businessman to go bankrupt - this man," he assorts loudly, "should be dead."

It is clear that whatever he's talking about, it is personal, but he makes no attempt to further explain.

"It's always good to hear I've made such an impression," Neal counters warily, eyeing the gun as he speaks. "It's a shame you failed to do the same."

"You give yourself too much credit." Lenart glares at him, strengthening his hold on the gun. "Obviously you don't have as perfect recall as you thought."

The operation is quickly crumbling; Lenart was supposed to be a mere fence, there would be smuggled items, Neal would verify them and the FBI would make the bust. It should have been clean and simple; instead, June and Neal are stuck with Lenart, who has a gun, and apparently a vendetta against Neal. Now, it is up to June to save the operation, and possibly, Neal and herself, too.

She takes a breath and turns to Neal. "So it is true?" She sounds shocked, standing behind the desk. "You're – is Mr. Lenart telling the truth?"

Neal simply lifts and drops his shoulders.

"My goodness."

Lowering herself back on the chair, June rests her chin on her hand, clasping fingers over her mouth. Inwardly she is _trembling,_ trying to suppress the screeching in her mind that says she's much too old for this. Outward, she's as stiff as a rock.

A moment later, she seems to pull herself together, and looks at Lenart with an unsure frown.

"What will you do? Surely you won't—you're not- "

Lenart shakes his head. "Mrs. Fey, I did not come here with the intention to use a gun."

"That's good to know," Neal murmurs. Lenart ignores it, but his eyes narrow.

"I've heard you were in town, Caffrey," he says suddenly. "Word is that you've flipped to the other side; cut a deal with the feds. Not even an honorable thief, are you?"

"The feds?" June echoes, eyes enlarging as she turns to Neal, "I've known you for two years- how would I not know?"

"That's kind of the point of an undercover operation," Neal deadpans, rolling his eyes elaborately. "I've been onto you ever since the Bureau tracked Tajli's ruby neckpiece to your private collection."

June looks simply too angry to find an answer to that. Throwing daggers at him, she pushes herself to her feet, and turns fiercely to Lenart.

"Alright, Mr. Lenart," she says resolutely, "what are you planning to do? I certainly do not want to be involved in this; I think you should-"

"What we do is that we go on with our business," Lenart cuts in. He doesn't spare much attention to June, but remains fixed on Neal. "I saw the van outside," he declares. "You've bugged the place as well?"

"Impressed?" Neal asks drily. Lenart shrugs.

"No."

"Bugged – you've set me up?"

June looks scandalized, but Lenart is obviously _amused_.

"Thinking you'd kill two birds with one stone, were you," he asks Neal smugly. "I have to admit, it's pretty funny that I get to be the one who walks away with a bag full of cash and Neal Caffrey as my hostage. I'd say it's turning out to be a very good day."

Listening to Lenart's little victory speech, June is meandering around the desk, the coffee table and the armchairs, one hand over her mouth, a mask of shock and thoughtfulness on her face. Then, she stops in mid-stride and turns to Lenart as though having decided he is the lesser evil in the room.

"What business are you talking about?" she asks abruptly, referring to the last thing Lenart's said to her. "You've brought me forgeries; what do you expect me to buy?"

"The real pieces, of course." Lenart tilts his chin towards the desk. "There's a second partition in the briefcase. Open it."

"You're saying they bugged the place – you're saying the feds are outside! I am not buying anything from you."

For a moment, silence falls.

Windowpanes shake and rattle in the wind; the steady beat of raindrop on the windowpane strains the atmosphere like war drums. Temperature seems to drop as Lenart slowly turns his head, and throws June a icy glare.

"I told you I didn't have the intention to use a gun," he inserts quietly. "Don't assume that I can'tif I have to."

Swallowing, June grips the back of an armchair with a shaking hand.

"You will leave with Caffrey and my money, and I will be left for the FBI to arrest."

"I'm an honorable man," Lenart puts emotionlessly. "I could have forced you to give me the money without giving you anything in return."

"Instead you're leaving her with proof of illegal transaction?"

Lenart frowns at Neal. "What is it to you? If anything, you should be grateful. Your friends won't be returning empty-handed."

Neal simply looks at him. "You have a warped mind, don't you?"

Gunshot pierces through the room.

June cries out, Neal flinches as the cushion on the antique chair beside him jumps and explodes into feathers.

"_Be quiet ,_Caffrey."

Lightening chooses that moment to flash and temporarily paint everything to silver; June presses her hand over her chest, trying to subdue the violent beating of her heart. She's not even aware that she's nearly crouched behind the furniture as she tries to keep herself together. Lenart turns to her, dead calm.

"Look into the briefcase," he says.

"Alright. Alright," June relents breathlessly, rises, and walks to the desk with shaking legs. "Don't shoot again; _please._"

"What are you going to do?" Neal asks loudly to Lenart, who hasn't moved an inch from where he's standing. Neal's voice is loud and strong; he looks furious as he glares at Lenart. "The house must be surrounded by now – you'll leave with me, and then what?"

"Why do you _care?_" Lenart asks, starting to get angry as well, "I'll take you somewhere private; beat the crap out of you, kill you and dump your body in a ditch – anything out of the picture, Caffrey?"

"No; quite the cliché," Neal counters sharply.

"Do _not_," Lenart warns, "test my limits. You don't know what I'm capable of."

"I – I need help with this."

June's voice trembles as she fumbles with the briefcase to find the hidden partition. _(Terror has entrapped her rigidly into the role she's playing; because if she slips and gives Lenart any reason to think she's working with the Bureau, it is both her and Neal's life that's at risk. In a rather twisted way, though, the way her fingers tremble and the booming of her blood-flow in her ears, she isn't actually_acting _much. Her reactions seep into the cover, filling into the cracks instead of shattering it. So far, so good, but all the while, June knows that she's walking on a thin rope.)_

"Let me help her," Neal says forcefully to Lenart. "You want this over with, right? Let's speed things up."

Wordlessly, Lenart gives him a tiny nod.

"I _will_ shoot if you try something, and I won't regret if it turns out you weren't."

"Yeah; got it," Neal snaps. Bringing his arms down, he shrugs his shoulders, smoothing his suit jacket, and approaches the desk, the tip of Lenart's gun following his every move. June silently steps aside, and lets him take over the briefcase, but after a second, it seems like she can't help but speak.

"You've been conning me for two years?" she asks quietly, a little shakily.

Neal throws her a sideways glance.

"Once a con, always a con, Mrs. Fey," he replies. There's something appreciative in his eyes as he does.

Neal removes the first partition with the faked items, looks inside the briefcase, and lets out a tiny whistle. June moves closer to look over his shoulder. There, in the second partition, are the items that Peter has shown them the photographs of: two ebony hand-mirrors that belonged to Roxana, Suleiman the Magnificent's infamous queen, and an egg-sized, bejeweled hairpin.

The evidence is in the open; now it's a matter of getting out of this situation without Lenart taking Neal hostage and walking out untouched.

Breathing a wordless exclamation of surprise, June leans forward and takes out one of the mirrors as though it's a delicate bird. It really is a beautiful piece; the calligraphy and the ornaments etched around the mirror are tiny and breathtaking in detail. June lets her admiration show.

"_Exquisite,_ aren't they?" Lenart asks drily. "Roxana's hand-mirrors. _That _is a treasure."

"That it is," June breathes, looking every bit the wealthy collector that has an item of interest in her hand. After a moment, though, she looks up, her gaze sharp.

"How do I know if these are real?"

Lenart's eyebrows rise dramatically, and he lets out an incredulous chuckle. "Why does it matter?"

"Humor me," June deadpans. She turns to Neal, and frowns at him. "Take a look at these. Tell me if they are fakes as well."

Neal looks confused. "You still trust me to tell you the truth?"

June throws Lenart a distasteful glance. "I don't have any reason to trust you any less than I trust this man_._"

Raising his eyebrows, Neal lets out a snort, and shakes his head. "You both are twisted," he murmurs. Nevertheless, he picks up the hand mirror, flicks on the desk light, and begins inspecting it.

"Hurry up, Caffrey," Lenart prods impatiently, "this is taking too long."

After a few seconds, Neal straightens, and carefully leaves the mirror back in its niche.

"It's the real deal," he declares.

June keeps herself completely stiff in order to prevent relief from showing, because 'real deal' is the activation phase; if the bug under the mantelpiece is still intact, Peter and his team will be barging in any second._All they need to do is to keep their cover for one more minute, and it'll be over, and June will make sure to never-_

"Forty million," Lenart states.

"All of them," June nods.

"Only the mirrors. The emeralds alone on the hairpin are worth fifty."

June's eyes widen a little. "You want ninety million dollars for these pieces?"

"No," Lenart replies, looking surprised, "I want a hundred." His eyes narrow suspiciously as he focuses on June. "You should've had an idea how much these items would be worth."

"I had no idea any of the things that are happening now _would_, Mr. Lenart," June argues hotly. _(This is going south too quick, and she knows in her gut that this is the point where things start to slip, slide down too quickly to be caught hold of again. Peter has better barge in already, because June's not sure how long they can keep this up; Lenart's gun is hovering over both of them.)_

"Can we get this over with already?" Neal breaks in impatiently. It does the trick; Lenart directs the gun to him again, cold grey eyes mere slits.

"What are you playing at?" he mutters slowly. He looks from Neal to June, and to June again as the both of them keep their silence. Tension is thick and palpable in the room, the drop of a pin can be heard, and then—

Everything happens at once.

The door of the study blasts in; Lenart's head whips around as footsteps of agents blend with the sound of the storm. Peter's there, and Diana and Jones and other people, everyone's shouting, nonsensical voices as they cross and overlap; there's a bang – a terrible, tearing sound above everything – one of the windowpanes go down, exploding into in a million tiny shards. With the corner of her eye, June sees Neal's arms flail, glass raining down on him, and he topples down and disappears from sight.

Chaos ensues.


	3. Chapter 3

**Act IV.**

In front of June's house, there are two ambulances parked haphazardly. FBI and other law enforcement members swarm all around the street, heedless of the rain that's still steadily pouring; it's raining cats and dogs and the street is a riverbed, but within the loud grumbling of the weather, chaos is undisturbed.

Neal's sitting at the back of one of the ambulances. June is in the other one.

Peter continuously goes back and forth between the two of them, pacing restlessly. He doesn't even seem to notice that he's soaked to the bone, splashing water all around as he moves with harsh strides. One moment he's with June, searching her pale face, asking the paramedic about her blood pressure, dissatisfied with the simple fact that June isn't hurt at all. Then, he's at Neal's side, looking over with a deep frown as the latter's face scrunches in pain, fingers gripping the edge of the seat until his knuckles turn white as the EMTs treat the bullet wound on his arm.

Peter seems to be still high on adrenaline.

"Damn it, Neal," he mutters, for probably the hundredth time in the last fifteen minutes, running a hand through his sodden hair. He doesn't even seem to notice that he's speaking.

"Will you give it a rest already?" Neal snaps irritably, hissing as the paramedic presses down the gauze to stop the bleeding.

"_Give it a rest_– do you have any idea," Peter counters, one hand on his hip, "how worse this could've gone down?"

"Yeah, Peter; I do have a pretty good idea," Neal shots back. He glares at Peter, who has finally stopped his pacing and is standing under the pouring rain. Peter looks at him for a moment, and then, releases a huge breath; approaches, and slowly sits down next to his partner under the protective shelter of the vehicle.

"I know," he sighs, sounding spent. "I know, Neal. I'm sorry."

Neal looks over him. "This _would _have gone worse if it weren't for June."

"Yeah," Peter agrees readily. His eyes are watching Neal like a hawk, as though he can't take his eyes off of his partner; the need to make sure he's okay is all too apparent, and Neal subtly looks away from Peter's protective glance. His teeth are clenched, but it's obvious he's trying not to let his discomfort show.

In the silence, Peter's brow slowly creases.

"How did you not recognize Lenart?" he questions slowly. Neal's eyebrows shoot up.

"Yeah- did he say anything? 'Cos I still have no idea who he is."

"Really, Neal. Honestly, you have no idea?"

"What?" Neal counters, an air of complete innocence on his face, "you of all people know about my deeds—alleged ones," he adds quickly. "You expect me to have a visual library in my head of all the people I've allegedly wronged?"

Peter blinks. "Well. _Yeah._"

Neal hisses again, though it's not clear if it's directed at Peter or the paramedic working on his arm.

"So Lenart didn't say."

"He did. _Samson&Charles_." Peter pauses. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Ah." Recognition flashes across Neal's face. "Benjamin Lenart – no wonder I don't recognize him. I'd never met the man."

Peter looks from side to side. "Is there an explanation somewhere in there?"

"Lenart was the heir of _Samson&Charles_," Neal says vaguely. "They went bankrupt after someone forged Samson's signature to – ah – _donate_ a good amount of money to some sort of – charity."

He clears his throat, and deliberately averts his gaze.

Peter simply shakes his head. "No wonder he's holding a grudge."

"I know," Neal admits quietly.

Before Peter has a chance to continue interrogating Neal about Lenart and the company that's gone bankrupt, June comes over to them. There's an umbrella in her hand, a worried frown on her face. She's just a bit pale, just a little shaken, but she holds herself as gracefully as she always does.

She directly looks to the paramedic treating Neal's arm.

"How bad is it?"

"It doesn't look deep," the man responds. "The bullet's ripped through the skin; doesn't look like it needs surgery. It'll need to be stitched once we stop the bleeding."

"Damn, I hate hospitals," Neal mutters behind clenched teeth. It earns him a glare from June, and Peter rolls his eyes. Then, he turns to June.

"June," he starts, shaking his head, "for what's it's worth… I'm sorry about the way things went down."

"Well," June breathes, lifting her shoulders as though she's cold, "let's all be glad that Lenart's aim wasn't any better." She smiles tensely, putting a hand on Neal's knee. Neal shakes his head.

"We should have never agreed to let you do this."

"Oh, be quiet," June chastises, "you've got your man, and this has been a lesson to me. I really am too old for this kind of thing."

"I don't know about that," Peter say with the hint of a smile on his lips, "but you definitely deserve an Oscar."

"Amen," Neal agrees, nodding. "You were amazing, Mrs. Fey."

"Come now," June mutters, but she's smiling. "I have to admit, though, it felt nice to be doing this again."

"Do I even want to know the previous roles you played?"

"Oh, you, Agent Burke, should come to my house for dinner, bring your lovely wife with you, too, and I'll tell you about the time Byron and I were Sir and Lady Hartley of Nottingham-"

"Oh dear."

They laugh, and the curtain goes down.

_When she was a little girl, June dreamed of being an actress.__When she grew up and met Byron, her dream came true. No; she never saw herself on the silver screen, never heard the applause of wild crowds, never received flowers and letters from fans or gave out autographs. But now, as an old woman, she sits at the head of her dining table, with Neal, Mozzie, Peter and Elizabeth, and knows that she's had it much better than an actress._

_With Mrs. Fey, she's got her proverbial Academy Award._

_Byron used tell her that 'the con must go on'. June would always counter by saying it had to end one day._

_In her jubilee, she declares that Mrs. Fey was her one last role._

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** Thank you for reading._


End file.
